Fichigan

Small stream Trout fishing in Michigan

Four men in a boat, one wired.

Two flies land on a pile of dung and after a minute or so one farts. The other looks over and says, “Do you mind? I’m eating.” That jewel came from Natch, our wired fishing buddy. He pulled out his internet phone after hearing one of us tell a groaner.  We were trying to pass the time on a lake and it looked like we might revisit the catalog of jokes we have been repeating for twenty years. It’s amazing how useful it is being connected, especially when four guys are sharing a boat built for two and fishing a lake that appears to be poisoned off.

I don’t know if Natch placed any orders for tech stocks while we were whizzing treble hooks by his scalp, or whether he managed to call Rene and the boys, or if he checked his email to see how missed he was at work, but I can say for sure he was less bored and frustrated than those of us casting for the missing fish.

Natch rattled off a couple more funny jokes and for once I thought, maybe being wired full-time to the internet has its advantages. Then I thought no, that’s exactly what I’m trying to get away from. If I had a time machine I’d dial it back about 40 years, fill up my 67 Camero for ten bucks and drive up to the Pigeon River. I’d pick up Feral on the way. (Our spring trout camp included everything but trout.)

I sidetracked a bit. I was in a high rise office building this spring knocking on doors trying to drum up business.  I stepped into an elevator and a small group of professional thirty-somethings jumped in at the last second. As soon as the door closed the smart phones came out and they all started checking for messages.

It was almost funny.

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